


PREMONITIONS 2, or, Adventures in Pursuit of a Seven-Year-Old Seer

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: PREMONITIONS [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Steve Rogers is there too.... for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: It’s been over a year since you met Bucky, and you couldn’t be happier. If only you could figure out why your precognitive niece is burying you in abstract crayon art…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy almost-new-year, and buckle in! This is a sequel to PREMONITIONS, or, Adventures Adjacent to a Six-Year-Old Seer. This story can be read on its own, but the prequel obviously provides some background. Plus, it’s fun :P
> 
> I started this as part of @buckychrist’s Holiday Writing Challenge over on Tumblr, so THANK YOU HAYLEY for an awesome inspiration!! My prompt was “Please get out of the snow, you’re going to get sick, and possibly die. And that would really ruin the holidays.” I hope you all enjoy :D

Bucky runs after Gemma, a feral grin on his face and a snowball in each hand. You cower behind the slide, laughing, until seven-year old Gemma jumps in a pile of snow with a shriek and Bucky turns to you.

“Ahh! No, Bucky!” You bolt off as he closes in, but a snowball hits your hat clean off your head. Bucky grabs you from behind and twirls you in his arms. His chest rumbles with his gleeful laugh, and you can’t help giggling along.

Bucky finally sets you down. The playground spins around you, and you quickly steady yourself against him. He cups your cheek with his snowy glove and drops a kiss on your lips.

“I win,” he says, smug as anything.

“You cheat,” you retort, brushing the snow from your face.

Bucky scoops up your hat and knocks it clean against his jeans. “Well, I suppose I do have an unfair advantage.” He pulls your hat over your hair. “You’re just physically incapable of staying away from me.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan, but your lips twitch. You glance over at Gemma, who’s making snow angels, and angle yourself so she can’t see as you slip your hand under Bucky’s jacket and trace a finger over his abs. “You love it.”

“Damn straight,” he growls, eyes darkening.

“Bucky, look!” Gemma calls. “I made a snow angel!”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and pulls back from you with a warning look. “Later,” he mouths. He jogs over to Gemma. “That’s awesome! Think this pile is big enough for me to try at it, too?”

You laugh and follow him over. By the time you get there, Gemma is sitting on his chest as he spreads his long limbs out in the snow.

“Oh hey you,” he says. “How’d I do?”

You squint at the blob—Gemma’s snow angel, plus whatever Bucky’s managed. “It’s something, that’s for sure. Now, how about we head back and get some of that awesome mulled cider your mom makes, Gemma?”

“Yeah!” Gemma bounces over to you, tugging on your arm.

“Girl, you are growing!” You make an effort to lift her off the ground. “So big!”

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe you’ll be as tall as me one day!”

“No I won’t!” Gemma says. “You’re _too_ tall!”

“Well, I think I’m just right.” He tucks his hands under his head and smirks up at you. “What do you think, darlin’?”

“I think that’s confidential.” You wink at him. His chuckle warms you like nothing else. “Now please get out of the snow! I haven’t had Sarah’s mulled cider in ages.”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay right here.” Bucky’s eyes twinkle as he stretches.

“If you do, you’re going to get sick, and possibly die.” You ignore his raised eyebrows and bend down to whisper in Gemma’s ear. “And that would _really_ ruin the holidays.”

Gemma giggles. “Come on, Bucky! If you want I bet we can have hot chocolate instead!”

“Hot chocolate?!” Bucky surges to his feet in a spray of snow. “Say no more!” He swings Gemma up onto his shoulders and marches off towards her house, grabbing your hand and pulling you along.

It’s near twilight by the end of your five-minute walk, and your free hand is chilly even in your pocket. Gemma’s teeth are chattering as you lift her down from her perch on Bucky’s shoulders, and you squeeze her close as you wait for someone to open the door.

“Hey!”

“Hi Dad!” Gemma says. She wriggles free and runs inside, plopping on the mat just past the door to tug off her boots.

Matt watches her with raised eyebrows for a moment before turning back to you and Bucky. “Hey guys,” he says. “C’mon in.”

“Please tell me there’s cider left,” you say.

“It smells amazing,” Bucky adds.

“Yes, there is cider left,” Sarah calls. She comes in from the kitchen and gives you a hug, but pauses when she sees snow still on Bucky’s coat. “Have fun at the park?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, eyes wide and innocent. “Although I admit to cheating at snowball tag.”

You bite back a snort and shuck off your coat. “After all this time I am _still_ not used to losing.”

“It’s funny, cause you always beat _me_ at tag,” Matt chimes in, passing you a mug. “You sure there’s no chance of getting an upgrade?

“Are you kidding? She’s perfect as she is,” Bucky says. He wraps his arms around you and plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek. “After running after Steve, being able to catch this one is real nice.”

“I bet,” Matt says. “Hey Gem, why don’t you grab that drawing for your aunt?”

“Okay!” Gemma runs upstairs, her feet pounding on the wood all the way to her bedroom.

You raise your eyebrows at Matt. “Another drawing? I’m drowning in Gemma original abstract art!”

“Yeah, it’s weird how she never gives you people,” Sarah says from the couch. “Come sit.”

You settle in the living room. Bucky tucks you against his side. The mug of cider is warm in your hands; Bucky’s right hand on your back is warmer still.

“You know,” Sarah continues, “she’s gotten pretty good at drawing people. There’s actually a drawing of you on our fridge, Bucky. Have you seen it?”

“Not yet! I’ll check it out,” he promises.

“Well, maybe she’ll draw me one day.” You perk up as Gemma’s footsteps echo overhead and clomp down the stairs.

Gemma skids to a stop in front of you, brandishing an abstract mishmash of colors. “Here you are!”

“Thanks, Gemma!” You take the paper gently and bite your tongue. “What is it?”

“It’s for you,” Gemma says.

“Yeah, but… what is it?”

She shrugs and crawls up onto her mom’s lap. “Put it on your fridge! You’ll see.”

“Ah, there’s that ominous niece of mine,” you tease. “Maybe I’ll go blind before I figure it out!”

“You won’t,” Gemma says. She turns to face you, her little face serious. “You’ll see.”

A chill passes through you as Matt gives you a nervous look. You cuddle closer to Bucky, who’s fiddling with his phone. You raise your eyebrows—the text from Steve isn’t a good one. “You okay?” you murmur.

“Yeah, sorry.” Bucky grimaces and stuffs his phone back in his pocket. “I need to head out, though. Can you come with?”

“Of course,” you say.

“Sorry you can’t stay,” Matt says. He reached over and tugs on Gemma’s ear. “Say bye, Gemma.”

“Bye!” Gemma’s back to smiling, but you can’t forget the severity in her face just moments before.

“I’ll see you soon, Gemma,” you promise. You lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek, and she grabs your wrist. She lifts your hand with her drawing.

“On your fridge,” she says. “Don’t forget.”

You scan her little face, your brow pinched. “Of course not, sweetheart,” you tell her. “Your word is my command.”

She smiles. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky sighs as you close your apartment door. “I wish I could stay.”

“Well, how soon does Steve need you?” You hang up your keys and coat by the door and lean against the wall.

“Honestly? I should’ve gone straight upstate.” He tangles his metal fingers in yours and pulls you close. He cups your chin with his other hand. His eyes are impossibly soft. “I guess I’m physically incapable of leaving you.”

“Oh _you_.” You stand on tiptoe and kiss him deep, snaking a hand under his shirt. He hums into your mouth, but pulls away with a shudder when you slip your hand lower.

“You are making this impossible, you know,” he groans.

“What a shame,” you murmur, but you hold your hands up in defeat. “Well, I know better than to get on _Steve’s_ bad side.”

Bucky snorts. “Fair enough.” He kisses you briefly. “What happened to Gemma’s drawing?”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me.” You fish the folded page out of your back pocket and head to the kitchen.

Bucky freezes in the doorway. “Wow. That’s… quite a collection.”

“She keeps giving me these abstract drawings,” you tell him. “It’s been going on for like two months. Every time I see her—”

“Well, she’s prolific, if nothing else.”

“Her drawing of _you_ is plenty good,” you argue. You finally find a free magnet and wedge the new drawing on the side of your fridge. “I just get this weird stuff. But you heard her. It’s bound to come in useful at some point.”

“I guess so.” Bucky scratches the back of his head with a frown.

“It’s Gemma,” you remind him. “If she says I need to keep it—”

“Then you keep it,” he finishes. He joins you by the fridge and taps the photo front and center. “At least there’s still room for my ugly mug on here.”

“Well, I’m not going to forget what you look like anytime soon.” You squeeze his arm fondly as you look at the photo of the two of you, grinning like loons. “Just don’t stay away too long this time if you can help it, huh?”

Bucky nods and kisses your forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

 

New Year’s passes before Bucky comes home, but you celebrate with him anyway. A few days late, but still a night to remember.

Days later, you still can’t keep from smiling goofily every time you remember the candlelit dinner and Bucky’s expert attention. If your coworkers tease you, well, that’s on them.

 

* * *

 

You’re sitting on your couch, mindlessly scrolling through Netflix as you wait for Bucky. He’s due in less than an hour. There’s a pie in the oven, a candle waiting to be lit, and the feel of lace and silk on your skin under your dress. You trace your lips with a smile.

Your phone rings on the table, vibrating against the veneer. You pop to your feet with a stretch and turn off the tv. Netflix can wait. You swipe your phone open to answer your brother’s call.

“Hey Matt, wha—”

“Gemma! Gemma’s missing!” Matt cries.

“What?” You freeze. “What do you mean, missing?”

“I don’t know where she is! She was upstairs drawing, but her window’s open and she’s gone!” Matt’s voice is frantic. “Where is she?!”

“Oh god! I have no idea!” You clutch your hair, eyes wide and unseeing. “Matt, Matt, where’s Sarah? Does she have—”

“Hey!” Matt shouts. Something on the other end clatters, and Matt shouts. His voice fades. “Hey! Let her go!” Someone grunts, and Matt yells.

Silence falls.

The line goes dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Matt's phone call, you rush to his house, desperate for answers.

Your phone slips out of your hand and clatters on the ground at your feet. Blood rushes in your ears. You run to the front door, pull on your coat and boots, and yank open your door. Before you lock up, you remember your phone. You run back in and grab it. In another thirty seconds you’re in the street, trying to flag down a taxi. The freezing air stings your cheeks, your legs, but nothing compares to the terror flaring in your chest.

What the hell is happening? What was that call? Where _is_ Gemma? Is Matt okay? What about Sarah?

_Where is Gemma?_

A taxi finally pulls over for you. You rattle off Matt’s address. “Hurry,” you add, voice catching. “It’s an emergency!”

The driver peels away from the curb. You can’t relax; you lean forward, breathing down your driver’s neck, not even buckled until he nervously asks you to sit back. Even then, you’re trembling, your blood pounding. You stuff your hands between your knees, but they’re shaking too.

Ten minutes never have never gone by by so slow.

The second he pulls up to Matt’s house, you open the door. You’re half out of the cab before you remember you need to pay. “Shit shit shit,” you mumble. Your purse is still hanging on its hook by the door back home.

You stare up at Gemma’s open window as you dig through your coat pockets. By some miracle, you find a twenty.

“Here, take it, keep the change,” you blurt, throwing the bill at the driver. You slam the car door shut and squeeze between the parked cars in front of Matt’s house.

The front door is unlocked. You burst inside, heart in your throat.

You freeze.

Half the stair runners are askew, and Gemma’s winter gear is strewn haphazardly across the living room. One of the couch pillows is in the kitchen doorway. You inch forward, barely breathing. The slow cooker is on the floor, and Sarah’s mulled cider is in a brown puddle across the floor, soaking into the pillow. A strangled sob escapes your throat.

You run upstairs to Gemma’s room. It’s empty, cold… The window is still open. Scribbled-upon papers litter the floor, covered in crayon and pen. Gemma’s bed isn’t made—but then again, it never is. You fall to your knees and press your hands to her bare sheets, willing them to reveal your niece. What’s happened to her? What’s happened to your brother?

In your pocket, your phone starts buzzing.

You flinch in surprise. Damn it, you should have called the cops by now! You pull your phone out and stare blankly at the screen before registering that it’s Bucky calling.

Thank _god_.

“Bucky!”

“Hey darlin’, how are y—”

“Matt and Gemma are missing!” you cry.

“What?”

You collapse onto Gemma’s bed. “Matt called and he said Gemma was missing and then someone else was there and the line went dead and now they’re gone and—”

“Woah, woah, hey, calm down,” Bucky interrupts. “Where are you?”

“Their house.” You sniff. “I haven’t even called the police, I just… ran over.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bucky is quiet for a moment, but you can hear his breathing accelerating. “I’m on my way there now. I’m going to call Steve, okay? If this is about what I think it’s about, we’ll be able to do more than the police. Okay?”

You bite your lip to keep your crying quiet. Instincts from the days before Bucky—most of your life, really—all want you to hang up and call the police. But Bucky’s not wrong. The Winter Soldier and Captain America have more resources at the arsenal than every police force in America. Probably.

“Y-yeah. Okay,” you tell him. “When will you be here?”

“Soon,” he says. “Where’s Sarah?”

“I—I don’t know. Her cider’s all over the kitchen floor…”

“Can you call her?”

“Um, okay. Yeah.” You sit up slowly. Your head is spinning, but you nod. “I can do that.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Bucky promises. “Call Sarah, and I’ll be there before you know it.” He pauses. “We’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay, darlin’. I promise.”

“Okay.”

You hang up. What else is there to say?

When you call Sarah’s phone, it rings from their bedroom next door. Your heart drops.

No one answers.

“Hello?” you call.

No one answers.

If Sarah is with her phone, why didn’t she answer it? Why would she ignore you?

She wouldn’t. She never has. The only options that come to mind are that she’s missing too—or she’s lying prone in her bedroom. Dead or unconscious.

You bolt to your feet and fly into the other bedroom.

An ounce of tension lifts from your shoulders. The bedroom’s empty; Sarah’s not here. At least she’s not dead—not that you can see. You still have no idea what’s going on, but at least you haven’t seen any dead bodies today.

“Darlin’?”

You jump. It’s Bucky. “Up here!”

Two sets of footsteps pound up the stairs. Two? You spin to face Bucky, who buries you in his arms without preamble. Over his shoulder, you see Steve going straight into Gemma’s room, his face drawn and focused. You close your eyes and let yourself relax into Bucky’s hold, burying your face in his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. His metal hand is secure across your back; the other is on your neck, warm and grounding.

“Oh god, thank god you’re here,” you whisper. You pull back. There are wet spot on Bucky’s shirt, and you lift your hands to your cheeks in surprise. Oh. You’re crying.

Bucky brushes your tears away, his eyes soft but his mouth set. “We’re going to find them. And then we’re going to make sure nothing like this every happens again.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky and Steve go through the upstairs one room at a time. You hover along behind them, trying not to get in their way, but the house isn’t big and those two aren’t exactly small. Every other minute, you’re in their way. But they never send you away. Bucky’s focused on studying the rooms, looking for clues, but he says nothing.

When they move downstairs, you linger in Gemma’s room. You kneel at her bedside again, tracing the empty indent on her pillow. God, what’s happened to her? Your sweet niece, with her happy laugh and her stubborn determination and her ominous certainty—

You put your head against the spot where she sleeps, wishing you could close your eyes and hear her breathing, hear her heartbeat, hear _anything_ that would reassure you she’s alive.

Downstairs, Steve and Bucky start to talk. You sit up and listen hard.

“This has to be about her powers,” Bucky says.

“I agree.” Steve sighs. “What’s the plan?”

“What’re you askin’ me for?”

“She’s your… dammit, I’ve never even been here before, Buck! You know these people.”

A thump—did Bucky punch something? You hope he didn’t leave a dent.

“Keep it together, Buck,” Steve hisses. “Your girl’s upstairs!”

Before Steve finishes, you can hear Bucky stomping up to you. By the time he reaches you, you’re sitting on Gemma’s bed, your hands between your knees. You can’t imagine what you look like, what with the crying and the terror, but Bucky doesn’t comment. All he does is kneel at your feet and take your hands in his. He stares up at you with tender concern.

“How are you doing?” he murmurs. You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know. I keep wishing her damn bed would tell me where she is.” You force a laugh. “Crazy, right?”

Bucky joins you on the bed and pulls you into his arms. “No,” he says. “Not crazy.” He settles his chin on your head. “I’m sorry to do this, but can you tell me about the phone call?”

You tell him as much as you can. The phone call, your harried trip over, your exploration of the abandoned house. He listens in silence.

“—and to think, I was going to have a nice night,” you finish with a sniff, thinking of the unlit candles and the pie no doubt setting off fire alarms in your oven and the new lingerie. What was all of that against your brother, his wife, your niece? “God. That sounds so selfish.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says, pulling back, “it’s not.” He kisses away the tears clinging to your cheeks, then tugs you back against him for a last, brief hug. When he pulls back, the dismay is clear on his face. “I don’t want to leave you. But I—we, Steve and me, need to get to the bottom of this.”

“I’ll be okay,” you say. You’re pretty sure it’s a lie, but what does that matter? “Go. Find them. Save them, and then come home safe.”

Bucky squeezed your hands. He studies your face, his blue eyes intent as if he were memorizing you. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

After Bucky and Steve leave, you call the police as instructed. It’s easier to tell the story this time. Or maybe you’re just numb.

Either way, you let them take your statement. You let them root around your brother’s empty house. You let them bring you out of Gemma’s room, downstairs, outsi—

“Wait,” you blurt.

You turn and rush back inside, back upstairs, and into Gemma’s room.

“This is a crime scene!” one of the officers says, running after you. She tries to grab your arm, but misses as you kneel on the floor and pick up a piece of paper.

Your heart pounds. It’s one of Gemma’s drawings. All the other pages on the floor are pictures of people, of animals, of houses or rocks or flowers. This one, though?

This one is abstract.

You stare at the paper clutched in your hands as the officer leads you back outside. Her lecture goes in one ear and out the other.

_Gemma,_ you think, _what are you trying to say?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dealing with the police at Matt's house, you head home.

As you feared, there’s a smoke alarm blaring in your apartment when you get home. You run to open the oven and nearly choke on the smoke. The pie looks like a lump of charcoal and smells ten times worse. You open all the windows you can, still in your coat. It’s going to get cold.

By the time you collapse on the couch, you’re back to sniveling. The police had given you a ride home. Coming home was the right thing to do—you couldn’t stay at an active crime scene—but it hurt to see the ruins of a night with Bucky that you’ll never get back.

_Bucky_. What are he and Steve up to? Are they having any luck?

You check your phone. Nothing.

Your phone crashes against the wall before you realize you’ve thrown it. “Dammit,” you mutter. You sniff and brush away the tears in the corner of your eye. The phone can wait.

When you pull your legs up, the paper in your pocket crinkles loudly in the empty room. Your heart skips a beat as you pull it out and smooth it flat on the coffee table.

Gemma’s crayon drawing is ringing all sorts of bells. The colors and shapes are familiar, even though you have no idea what they mean.

“Why didn’t she just write a damn note?” you mutter. You scrub a hand over your face. “Or just… why didn’t you just _tell us_ , Gemma?”

Your niece doesn’t answer.

You sink back into the couch, throat tight. Of course she doesn’t answer. She’s missing, and you? You’re all alone. Alone with Gemma’s cryptic art that might not even mean anything. Maybe it’s just a scribble. Maybe she saw one too many Jackson Pollock paintings, or Picasso, or whatever. Maybe she’s experimenting. Even kids experiment.

But it’s _Gemma_ you’re dealing with. Gemma, with her premonitions and her sudden urgent severity. And she _had_ been serious the last time she’d given you something like this drawing. You clamber to your feet and go to your fridge, wrinkling your nose at the acrid smell still lingering despite the winter breeze from outside. Gemma’s drawings hang on your fridge thanks to a mishmash of magnets from vendors and friends, plus the save-the-date for Matt and Sarah’s wedding eight years back.

You yank Gemma’s most recent gift down and hurry away. You can’t bear to see their names, their faces. Not right now.

Set next to each other, Gemma’s two drawings are only vaguely similar. There’s one corner of the new drawing that has the same pattern as the other, but generally speaking they look very little alike.

A yawn bursts out of you, making your jaw crack with the sheer exhaustion seeping out of you. You check the time—damn, it’s almost one? How did it get so late?

The burnt smell has started to dissipate, and your legs are covered in goosebumps from the cold air coming in. You pull yourself to your feet with another yawn and go around shutting all the windows. By the time you’ve locked the last one in your bedroom, you don’t have the energy to take off your coat. All you can do is collapse on your bed.

 

* * *

 

_You’re dropped in the middle of a scratchy landscape, brightly colored and totally alien. The grass tickling your legs leaves matching splotches of color on your skin. You turn slowly in place, brow furrowed. Where is this?_

_Aha—not far behind you is an upside-down teardrop. You cut across the technicolor landscape, eyes fixed on your destination until you realize the ground beneath you has changed. Frowning, you bend to poke at the smooth white path cutting through the textured grass. Your fingertip comes away white. You sniff at your finger, but you can’t smell a thing._

_Your frown deepens as you stand up. The path is wide enough to be considered a road, although there’s no indication of any cars having driven here. There’s no indication of anything but you._

_“Hello?” you call._

_No one answers._

_You stand on tiptoe and peer across the grass. You try for a jump, but the second your feet leave the ground you’re flying up into the air. A scream tears from your throat as you hurtle upwards with limbs flailing and your coat flapping around you._

_Black spots dilute your vision, but in the last moment before air runs out, it clicks._

_The bright colors, the scratchy textures… You’ve seen this all before._

You wake with a gasp. In your haste to get out of bed, your legs tangle with your sheets and you fall face-down on the floor, snagging your elbow on the lip of your bed frame. You ignore the pain blooming and scramble to your feet. Apparently you forgot to take off your boots last night, but that’s besides the point now. You run into the living room to sweep up the two drawings from the coffee table before skidding over the tiled kitchen floor to the fridge. You pull off all of Gemma’s drawings, sending magnets clattering all over the floor.

You make it back to the joint dining and living room, your arms full of paper and your heart beating out of your chest. A sweep of your arm clears your table. Your mail pile flutters to the ground; the unlit candle from your aborted romantic dinner lands on the ground with a thump. You slam down Gemma’s drawings and rifle through them for the one you found under her bed just a few hours ago.

Held over the others in their splayed pile, the connection is stronger than ever. Your heart races as you shove the pages around on the table. Smooth path cutting through the grass, teardrops in the sky…

You step back, holding your breath as you stare down at what you’ve done. Gemma’s drawings cover the entire table. Her two latest are in the very middle, the short end of one overlapping with the long side of the other. All across the table there are connections and overlaps.

At the bottom right corner of the table, a bright blue teardrop hangs upside-down in the middle of a burst of gray scribbles. A red teardrop hangs at the far corner. Three dotted lines and a single solid one cut across all the drawings, connecting the two markers.

Gemma hasn’t done abstract art.

Gemma’s made you a _map_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've gotten Gemma's message, your next move is clear.

_“The number you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone._ ”

The phone shakes against your ear as you sit at your table, every muscle tense. You have no idea what was safe to say—is someone listening in on you? “Bucky? It’s me again. I just… Please call back. Gemma’s art—well, please call back. Thanks.”

You hang up. The phone goes back in your pocket. Even if Bucky _had_ answered, you weren’t sure how much you felt comfortable saying aloud. Gemma’s map was clever, of course, but why on earth had she gone to such ridiculous lengths? Did she know what she was drawing? Were her powers still developing, or was she destined to only ever get vague hints?

It was certainly possible she didn’t know why—or what—she was doing, but you couldn’t take that risk. If whoever was responsible had ears or eyes at Matt’s house, they _had_ to know that Bucky Barnes visited. And they’d know why, too.

You.

If they knew you were the tie that bound Gemma to the Avengers, they would be crazy not to keep an eye on you, too. How did anyone even figure out Gemma had powers? Do they even know what she can do?

You keep staring at Gemma’s map. It fits perfectly on your table. She knew what she was doing, consciously or not. And damn it, you are _not_ going to let her down.

Gemma is counting on you. Not just her, but Matt and Sarah too.

Tears blur your vision. You swipe them away. The time for tears is over. Now is the time to focus. You grit your teeth and lean back over the table.

From your usual spot, it looks like Gemma’s drawn a route out of the city to the northwest.

Well, it would make sense. Even if the Avengers compound is north of the city, upstate is plenty big enough to hide one small family. You’ve driven around up there—abandoned buildings along the interstate, the economically depressed cities of the Rust Belt, the _lifelessness_. Hell, given the money, you could hide a family up there too.

And hell, maybe the map went even farther than Buffalo. Maybe they’d been taken clean out of the country. Canada is right there, after all.

God, do you even know where your passport is?

You automatically go look through the paperwork in your bedroom. The longer you spend bent over the rattled bottom drawer of your tall dresser, the less steady your hands are. God, could this day get any worse?

It’s there at the bottom of the pile, miraculously still valid. You collapse against your bed, passport hugged tight against your chest. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to ignore it. Your family is in trouble. How can you sleep?

After a moment spent gathering yourself, you try Bucky again. Surely now he’ll pick up…

But no. He doesn’t.

_“The numb—_ ”

Before his obnoxious, robotic phone message starts its third word, you’ve hung up and the phone is, once again, halfway across the room. It’s the middle of the night. Why would he answer?

Oh, who knows, maybe because there’s a legitimate emergency?

You bury your face in your hands. The passport scratches your cheek, but you’re immobile. Within a few minutes, you’ve slipped to the floor, vision fading as exhausted catches up with you.

 

* * *

 

 

You wake with a start. The dim, pre-dawn light is still enough to make you squint.

Your passport is still poking at your face, and you push it away with a huff. Some of the pages have bent, but it’s still in one piece. That’s all you need. But first—has Bucky called? You crawl over to where your phone landed last night, but there’s nothing. No new calls, no new texts, no new emails even.

Emails…

You sit on your heels and write a hasty email to work. And ‘family emergency’ isn’t a lie. It’s the most honest thing you can say right now. Hopefully they’ll understand. Tax season isn’t on for another week. And maybe, just maybe, Gemma’s map will be enough to end this nightmare before anyone asks any questions.

Once you’re done, you grab your laptop from your bed and bring it to the living room. You try Bucky one more time, and this time you manage to hang up _without_ throwing anything.

If Bucky’s not going to answer, you’ll just have to figure this all out for yourself.

You bring up Google maps. It’s centered on your location as usual, the entire screen taken up by the city. You zoom out slowly, keeping your location at the bottom right of the screen. Newark comes into view, then Poughkeepsie. When Toronto comes into view, the detailed map of highways fades. Only the major interstates are visible now, but none of them match the route Gemma’s drawn for you.

Frowning, you scroll back in just enough to see the roads that criss-cross the state. Your eyes cross as you try and match Gemma’s map with the one on your screen, but nothing matches. You rub your forehead with a wince, blinking away the sudden ache behind your brow. You slump in your seat, head lolling.

Oh.

Maybe it’s not a straight match.

You tilt your laptop to the right, then the left, and—there! You nearly cry with relief. There are the three routes. You trace Gemma’s map with a finger in the air, and trace the same figure smaller over your screen.

Gemma’s route ends south of the Finger Lakes, somewhere along New York’s southwestern border. Well, so much for the passport search. Your best attempts to pinpoint the exact location on Google maps put the destination somewhere in Canisteo, a tiny town you’ve never heard of. It’s a five-hour drive, give or take.

You check the time—it’s barely five. If you leave now, you might beat rush hour.

Who are you kidding? It’s always rush hour on a weekday morning.

You’re still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. It takes two minutes to strip down and get something more practical on—your heart clenches as you toss the silk and lace underthings in the laundry. By the time you’re done, your blood is pumping. You stuff your laptop, some granola bars, and a water bottle in your backpack. And your passport.

You’re almost out the door before you remember Gemma’s map. You spin back and take a photo of it all assembled before you put them in a ordered pile. The pages go into a folder, which you cradle gently to your chest. You write Bucky a text with Gemma’s map attached. You hesitate—what if they’re tapping your phone?—but you send it anyway.

You wait for a heated moment, bottom lip caught between your teeth, but there’s no response. No ‘read’ message.

For whatever reason, Bucky’s out of commission. The rest is up to you.

In another ten minutes, you’re out the door and climbing into a zipcar housed a few blocks away. The folder of Gemma’s drawings is on the seat next to you. Your knuckles are white as you clench the steering wheel and pull out onto the street.

Dawn is breaking to the east. In the moment you check left before turning, you realize how beautiful it is.

But that doesn’t matter. Dawn will come again.

Right now, it’s time to find your family.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canisteo doesn't provide all the answers you were hoping for. Despite that, you learn something new.

Canisteo. Steuben County, New York. Population: 3,254.

Distance from the city: 300 miles.

Expected travel time? Five hours.

How long does it take _you_ to get there?

Seven. _Fucking._ Hours.

A semi-trailer truck crashed on the highway an hour out of the city, blocking all three lanes and setting traffic to a standstill. You’re stuck in the same spot for almost forty minutes. After that, things pick up, but just barely. The cars inch along until, finally, you beak free of the bottleneck. With every minute that passes, you can’t help but imagine what horrors your family is going through. It’s an effort to unclench your hand from the wheel to change gears, adjust the heat, try to listen to the news…

Every minute is torture.

When you finally pass the “Welcome to Canisteo” sign, your heart leaps. Finally! You can swoop in, find your family, save them…

Find your family…

Main Street is quaint, almost disturbingly so. Light, colorful buildings with detailed facades line the sidewalk. The last snow was a week ago; what remains has gone gray and yellow. Weak winter sun streams in through thin clouds overhead.

You drive up and down Main Street, passing banks and restaurants and people wandering around during the lunch hour. No one is familiar. The sun on the snow is blinding, and you alternate between squinting and blinking.

After your second U-turn, you pull over. You peel your hands away from the wheel and go into park. Your hands are stiff, stiff with cold and terror. They tremble as you pull the key from its slot. You shove your hands between your legs and press your forehead against the steering wheel, vision blurring.

You’ve followed Gemma’s map. You made it to Canisteo. But what are you supposed to do now?

Well, sitting in your chilling car isn’t going to accomplish anything. You check the signage—yes, you’re good to park here—and stuff the map of Gemma’s drawings into your backpack. The bag is a solid weight on your shoulders as you wander through the center of town. Things seem as tranquil as they appeared at first glance. The restaurants aren’t too busy, the sidewalks are neatly paved, traffic is limited. After a lifetime spent in the city, the serenity is more disturbing than anything. Even if your neighborhood is relatively quiet, there’s still the hum of the subway, the cars and taxis…

This place feels halfway dead.

Every person you pass gives you a look, and you prickle under their stares. Sure, you’re a stranger. What of it? There’s no harm in city folk visiting small towns.

Your shoulders are around your ears by the time you duck into a cafe for a bite to eat. You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and your gut is cramping. You force down a sandwich. Nausea curls at your gut as you eat—more wasted time! these twenty minutes might be the difference between life and death!—and you try not to cry into your tea.

If you get so hungry that you pass out, you’re no help.

But having eaten, you have to come to terms with the fact that even sated, you don’t know what to do.

What if Canisteo isn’t the right destination? There’s no message for you here, not that you’ve seen, and you have no idea how to grill the locals. Interrogation is a skill you don’t have, be it as a good cop or bad. You don’t know how to weasel information out of people—being honest is what you’ve been taught, what you know. How the hell are you supposed to magically discover the—lair? Hideout? Maybe they’re upstairs in this very building. Who the hell knows! You sure don’t.

You bite your lip hard as you stare down at your empty plate. You will _not_ cry in a cafe. You will _not_.

“Are you alright, miss?”

You flinch and stare over at the older man looking at you from the next table. Your heart races. Why is he bothering you? Does he know? Is he one of them?

“Y-yeah,” you manage. You unclench your fists, force a smile. “Just trying to figure out where my brother got to.”

The old man nods and turns back to his bagel and newspaper. Your hands shake as you gather your things. Is the man watching you? Are the eyes you feel on you malign or concerned?

Are you even thinking straight?

You flee the cafe, not once looking back until you’re locked in your freezing car. From here, you can just make out the man at the cafe window. And all he’s doing is sitting there, bagel and newspaper in hand.

You sag in your seat, breath coming as heavy as if you’d just run a marathon. Through the windshield, Canisteo’s tranquility laughs at you.

Why did Gemma summon you here? What are you supposed to do?

Were you even supposed to come?

Hands shaking, you pull out your phone and try Bucky. You haven’t tried since the last call before you left, and he hasn’t gotten back to you. But it’s been almost eight hours. Maybe now…

_“The number you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone."_

You let Bucky’s voicemail message finish before hanging up. You don’t bother leaving a message. What is there to say? ‘Hi, Bucky, I drove halfway to Canada because Gemma’s abstract art looks like a Google map and that definitely means I’m in the right place!’

Right. Because that sounds _so_ convincing.

You bang your forehead against the steering wheel and stare mindlessly at the dashboard beyond. The plastic of the wheel is cold against your face. Focus, dammit. There’s no point in letting yourself get paranoid. Gemma’s never led you astray before.

Astray, no. Into trouble?

Your hand drifts to your side, where under your jacket and shirt a scar lingers. The one time Gemma had led you into trouble, you’d been shot saving Bucky’s life. You were fine, in the end, and you’d gotten a dream boyfriend out of it to boot. For whatever reason, the assassin had never come after you, and nothing like it had ever come up again.

But now?

Kidnapping isn’t the same as murder. But as much as you’d stopped the bullet, it was Gemma who’d put you where you needed to be.

Your breath catches. Slowly, you sit up, tension clogging your throat. That fateful night was well over a year ago, but revenge is a dish best served cold.

Is this kidnapping to do with last Halloween?

“Oh god,” you whisper.

The silence is deafening. Your heart thumps in your chest. No _wonder_ Bucky’s been off the grid. Of _course_ he’s been ignoring your calls. If there are assassins involved, he’d certainly try to keep you out of it. He was apologetic about you getting shot even when you were a stranger. Now that you’re dating…

Certainty settles over you like a wet blanket. If anything happens to you, Bucky will blame himself. And you aren’t about to let that happen to the man you love.

The man you _love?_

Your lips part and your eyes widen.

Well, shit.

Sure, you and Bucky have been dating for almost a year. You’ve teased each other, shared longing looks, and reached for each other in moments of distress. But neither of you have ever mentioned love.

Maybe you’ve told him you love his body, or his hair. Even his arm, with all it can do. But not _him_.

Hell, it took months for you to even put a label on each other. You can still remember the summer day you took Gemma upstate when Bucky first called you his girl.

Your throat burns; you clap a hand over your mouth. Oh god, why didn’t you realize it before? Of course you love him—he’s perfect. Funny, beautiful, smart, sexy… And he’s had nothing but respect for you from day one. Not like so many others, who roll their eyes at your boring job or wince at your cheekiness. Bucky just grins.

Before now, you’ve never really worried about his superhero status. By the time you see him after missions, he’s back to his usual fantastic shape. The things you’ve worried about are more mental than physical.

But now?

If you hadn’t been there, if Gemma hadn’t brought you to the right place at the right time, Bucky might have died last Halloween, gunned down in the street with his milk and his phone. Steve would have arrived too late. You… you never would have met him. Your heart clenches at the thought. You can’t imagine life without Bucky Barnes. He’s your everything.

You take your phone in hand again, your finger hovering over Bucky’s name. He might not answer now, but he’s bound to listen to your messages at some point. You tap on his name and press your phone to your ear, your jaw set.

_“The number you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone.”_

This time, you don’t hang up right away. Instead, you wait for the tone.

“Hi Bucky, it’s me. It’s, uh, around one pm. I know you’re busy, but I w-wanted—” Your voice shakes. What if this is the last message you leave him? What if he doesn’t feel the same? You swallow away your fear. “Sorry. I wanted to tell you I love you. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but no matter what happens, I love you. So damn much, Bucky.” Tears are pricking at your eyes. You’re sure you sound wrecked. “Please be safe. No matter what happens to me, please take care of yourself.” You sniff. “Bye.”

You hang up.

 

* * *

 

The next four hours, you drive around Canisteo and the surrounding towns. There’s no sign of Matt, Sarah, or Gemma, let alone any assassins. With every hour, your heart drops. Isn’t there supposed to be some special time window for finding kidnapping victims? You can’t remember it off the top of your head, but it’s been close to twenty hours.

What about Sarah’s morning vitamin? What about Gemma’s? It’s the middle of winter—are they warm enough?

Are they even alive?

You try not to consider that.

The sun sets around five, and you go back to Canisteo to grab dinner. Maybe there’s a villain at the convenience store. Maybe it’s the woman with the pink hat and bubblegum, or the skinny teenager with skin-tight jeans.

Probably not the teenager.

_Hopefully_ not. No teenager should have to be involved with anything remotely connected to this—but then you think of Gemma, and what she is going through at age seven, and you can barely muster a smile for the cashier.

There’s a hotel five miles away, and you drive to it with a heavy heart. For all your determination at dawn, today has been nothing short of wasted. What good has your upstate adventure been? You haven’t found your family, nor even a hint of them. Bucky and Steve are on the case—what was the point in getting involved yourself? You’re no detective. You certainly aren’t a hero, either.

You check into the hotel. When you get to your room, you pull the curtains tightly closed and dump the contents of your backpack on the bed. Gemma’s folder, your laptop, some granola bars, and a water bottle is all you thought to bring with you. You don’t even have a toothbrush. And of course, you’ve forgotten about the granola bars until right now. Great. More money wasted.

You open your laptop and log into the spotty wifi. You put the rest of your things back in your bag and stuff it under the bed.

It’s been over four hours since you called Bucky. There’s no harm in trying again, right?

_“The number you are tryi—”_

You hang up. There’s no point in leaving another voicemail. He’ll get it eventually. You curl up on the bed with just the bedside lamp on and search Google maps for likely lair locations. A warehouse here, an abandoned building there… They could be anywhere, and you just don’t know.

You hate not knowing.

An enormous yawn cracks your jaw. You don’t know how you can be tired after everything that’s happened. Then again, terror is exhausting. And you’re no help to your family right now. Tears come again to your eyes—you’ve never cried this much in twenty-four hours—and you wipe them on the stiff pillowcase.

Then your phone rings.

You sit up so fast your vision blacks out. You feel blindly for your phone. Your vision clears as your fingers finally catch hold of your phone.

It’s Bucky. You answer in a flash.

“Bucky,” you breathe. “Oh my god.”

“Darlin’, what’s going on?”

Bucky’s voice fills your ear. Tension you didn’t even realize was there seeps out of you at the sound. God, you love that sound. You hold the phone with both hands, fingers curled around it as though Bucky could feel you holding onto him.

“Are you okay? Did you get my calls?” you ask.

“I’m okay, yeah.” He sounds exhausted. Has he slept since last night? “I saw you called. Didn’t listen to your messages yet, figured I’d just call back. What’s going on? Did the police get back to you at all?”

In the background, you can hear someone else talking. Steve? It’s impossible to tell.

“No,” you say. You bite your lip. “Do you have any news?”

“We tracked them upstate, but we don’t know exactly whe—”

“Finger Lakes?” you interrupt.

Bucky’s brief silence is tense. “How do you know?”

“Because Gemma left a map,” you say, gaining confidence as you continue. “The art she left me—it was a map, Bucky. A map to Canist—”

A bang on the door cuts you off. You stare in horror as the knob turns, gray plywood splintering against the dark rug.

“What’s going on?” Bucky demands. “What—”

“They’re here,” you gasp. You scramble off the bed and run to the bathroom, locking yourself in as the front door slams against the wall. Your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even tell if Bucky can hear your harried whispering. “I’m in Canisteo. No, the hotel near it—Gemma’s map is under the be—”

You scream as the bathroom door bursts open. A man in dark clothes and a scarf and goggles over his face rushes at you. The phone drops from your hands as you careen back, and you can dimly hear Bucky yelling at you through the phone.

The man grabs your neck and slams you against the wall. You see stars as your head ricochets. The man lifts his foot and slams it down on your phone.

The screen cracks. The line goes dead.

The man slams you against the wall again, and then you see nothing else at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some unwelcome gate-crashers at your family reunion.

Light bleeds into your vision. Your limbs are numb with cold. There’s a pain in your neck, and you try to turn your head. Your chin is against your chest. You’re… in a chair?

You’re not in bed. So why are you waking up?

You open your eyes just a crack and hiss. The light is dim, but it’s enough to set your head pounding. Or maybe your head was pounding anyway.

“Finally awake, eh?”

Your eyes pop all the way open. You lurch in your seat, but your arms and legs are secured tight. Pain slices through you with every breath.

The man kneeling in front of you is covered head to toe. Dark clothes, a scarf over his face, tinted goggles. Your memory jogs—the hotel! You struggle against your restraints, eyes wide. The man just sits on his heels and watches until you give up, gasping.

Other than his unremarkable accent, he has no identifiable features. You can’t even tell his race.

Enough of him. Where are you? You cast your eyes around the small room you’re in. The walls are cracked concrete. The only light is a flickering overhead fluorescent fixture, two of its three tubes dark. You and the man are alone in the room. There’s no windows, no boxes, nothing. Just the two of you.

You look back at the man and set your jaw.

“Where I am?” you demand.

He stands up. He’s tall—not as tall as Bucky, though—and looks fit. He circles behind you and tilts your chair back. His fingers dig against your shoulder blades.

“Hey!” you yelp, wriggling like mad. “Put me down! Don’t touch me”

The man ignores you. He wheels you backwards out of the room through a door you couldn’t see before. Your continued yells echo, and you quiet at once, swiveling your head around to stare.

You were right—the lair _is_ a warehouse. There are boxes piled high in the dim, cavernous room, boxes full of god-knows-what. Hopefully not bodies. But there’s no stench of decay, no suspicious blood stains. For all that this place seems empty, it’s oddly _clean_.

The man wheels your chair around, and you straighten your neck as you keep staring ahead. There are two other chairs at the other end of the warehouse. And there are two people tied down.

Matt? Sarah?

A choked cry escapes you. As you’re wheeled close enough to see, your heart drops. Both of them have been gagged, but you can hear them trying to call to you. Their muffled shouts slice through you like knives. And—oh god, Matt’s eye is swollen shut, and there’s a raw scrape across Sarah’s face, as though she’d been dragged. Both of them look horrified.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to collect yourself. God, you were so close, and now all you can say for yourself is that _you_ haven’t been gagged. But you can’t think of a thing to say. Except _sorry_.

“A nice family reunion,” the man behind you says lightly. He wheels you around until you’re next to Matt, then steps back to look you both over. “You two even look alike.”

You bite your lip hard to keep from swearing at him. Back talk won’t do any of you any good. This isn’t a nice family reunion, not by a long shit. Your brother and his wife have been hurt, you’ve been hurt…

And where the hell is Gemma?

The man beckons with his hand to your left. You turn to look and—

“Gemma!” you cry.

A woman, her identity as well-concealed as the man’s, is dragging Gemma by her thin wrist towards you. All Gemma has on is a nightgown and socks. Tears and snot are running down her face, and you can see a hand-shaped bruise on her other arm. Rage turns your vision red, and you rock wildly in your chair until the man in front of you reaches out and steadies your chair.

“Careful there,” he says. “You might hurt yourself.”

“Get your hands off of her!” you snarl. You snap your teeth at the man by you, and he casually backhands you across your face. The ringing in your ears multiplies tenfold as your head snaps to the side with a gasp. Matt’s sob cuts through you like a knife.

_Oh my poor brother…_

“Now Gemma,” the man says, his voice still disturbingly light, “you see we’ve got your whole family now. You can’t have any objections about helping us now that we’ve brought your nice aunt here too, just like you asked.”

_What?_

Your head lolls forward enough for you to clap eyes on Gemma again. She’s staring at you, her heartbreak clear. No. No way. Whatever the man says, you know Gemma didn’t put you willingly in harm’s way.

“I love you,” you mouth, but the woman notices.

She hisses and claps a hand over Gemma’s mouth. “What did you say?” she demands.

“I—nothing!” You lean back as the woman pulls out a gun. “Just that I love her!” you cry.

“Well,” the man says, “how sweet.” He nudges his partner back. “Gemma, isn’t it nice to know your auntie loves you?” When Gemma doesn’t answer, the woman twists her arm until Gemma cries out. “You know I don’t like to ask twice, Gemma,” the man warns.

“It’s nice!” Gemma bawls.

If you could, you’d look away. You’d do anything to erase the terror and distress from her face, or the sight of it from your mind. But that’s your _niece_ , dammit, that’s your Gemma, and you will not let her see you look away.

God, what have they done to her that you can’t see?

“That’s better,” the man says. He pats Gemma’s head. “Well, knowing you have your family here supporting you must be a big relief. All those _nerves_ that made you so distracted earlier must have dissipated.” His voice turns suddenly hard. “And now you’ll _deliver_ , or you’ll see what we do to people who disappoint us.”

Gemma’s shaking like a leaf. Tears are streaming down your face. You can’t imagine what Matt and Sarah are going through—this is their daughter, their only child…

“I—” Her voice breaks, but you can see her set her jaw. There’s a defiant sparkle in her eye, a stubborn tilt to her jaw. You _know_ that look. Yet still she says, “I will.”

Both the man and woman relax visibly at that. The woman even holsters her gun. You blink away your tears, lips parted. You’ve seen Gemma like this before. This is exactly how she looks when she’s following her gut.

This is exactly how she looks when she’s _having a premonition._

“We’re thrilled, Gemma,” the man says. He gestures to his partner, who loosens her grip on Gemma’s wrist. Gemma pulls free and rubs her arms. She must be freezing, you realize, but she’s not shivering anymore. “So what can you tell us?”

The woman snaps her head to stare at him. “You wanna do this _here?_ ”

“We didn’t bring these fine folks here to waste away,” he retorts. “Right now we can _all_ see what’s at stake. Right, Gem?”

Hearing that nickname come out of his mouth turns your stomach. You swallow back bile as Gemma nods.

“I know what comes next,” she says slowly. She looks away from you and up into the man’s masked face.

“Do tell,” he says.

You have no idea what he looks like, but you can almost feel him salivating with anticipation.

Gemma swallows. Her eyes dart back to you, to her parents. You glance over at them as well—both of them have their hands clenched into fists; their eyes are wide with terror. If they were free to speak, you know they’d tell Gemma to tell the kidnappers whatever they wanted to know. But Gemma’s growing smirk is more wily than that.

Is she… _playing_ them?

The pregnant pause speaks volumes. Finally, Gemma speaks.

“A bang bang.”

Your mouth drops open.

“What?” the woman asks, incredulous. “What the hell does that mean?”

Gemma sits down on the floor and crosses her arms. “A bang bang,” she repeats, louder. She scoots a little ways sideways and presses her lips together. “You should duck.”

The kidnappers glance at each other. You huddle down as far as possible in your chair. Beside you, Matt and Sarah do the same.

Then the wall blows in.

Dust and debris fly through the warehouse; sirens pierce the air. A piece of drywall strikes the man on the face, and he stumbles. The woman drops to a crouch and starts to run, but a gunshot rings out and she screams, falling to the ground with a hand on her leg. The man recovers and reaches for Gemma, but she’s already crawled under Matt’s chair. The man gives up on Gemma and whips out a gun from his belt, but by then Captain America’s shield is flying through the air.

The man goes down without another sound.

The woman snarls. You look back at her, eyes stinging from the dust—she’s got a gun aimed right at you. You gasp, heart in your throat, but the second she pulls the trigger, a dark blur moves between you, and the bullet pings as it’s deflected against metal.

A squad of policemen rush in, walkie-talkies blasting loudly. You can barely focus.

The dark blur slowly solidifies in your vision.

“Bucky?” you croak.

Bucky kneels at your feet and cuts your legs free. The police are already swarming Matt and Sarah, but you can’t tear your eyes from the man in front of you as he slices away the last of the duct tape over your—fortunately covered—arms. Only then does he look up at you, taking your stinging hands in his.

“Hey darlin’,” Bucky says softly. “Sorry I’m late.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phew!

Dust still hangs thick in the air as Bucky tucks the trauma blanket tighter around your shoulders. The hole in the wall is doing nothing for the temperature—it’s getting colder by the minute. Matt, Sarah, and Gemma are huddled together just outside as they talk to Steve and the lead detective. You’re too far away to hear them clearly, but the ambient sound of their voices is enough.

Once you’d been cut free, you all hugged the living daylights out of each other. One policewoman had come to take your statement, but Bucky had given them the evil eye and shooed them off. He’s keeping you to himself, but with everything that’s happened, you don’t have a problem with that. Let Matt and Sarah deal with the authorities. You’re happy to settle for Bucky’s arm around you, his eyes on your face.

“Did you want to go outside?” he asks quietly. “Out of the dust?”

You shake your head against his shoulder, content just to have your family in view. The dust doesn’t bother you.

Not far away, an EMT is wrapping the female kidnapper’s leg wound. Her face has been exposed—she’s maybe forty, with close-cropped hair and a hefty scar along her cheek. She glares at you from the gurney she’s cuffed to. When she’s finally wheeled by, she spits in your direction.

“What the hell!” You scuttle back, eyes wide, as Bucky angles himself between you and the gurney.

“Should’ve known _he’d_ get in the way of your bullet,” she snarls. She twists her head; her neck looks practically dislocated. “Two fucking peas in a pod.”

Then she’s too far to be heard.

You blink in shock.

So this _was_ about last Halloween. You can’t believe it. You never really expected that your half-mad runaway thoughts might be _right._ A glance at Bucky confirms it; his free fist is clenched tight, and his narrowed eyes are trained on the gurney.

“I wonder what took them so long,” you muse.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Halloween was over a year ago.”

His eyes narrow, then soften. “Of course you figured it out,” he murmurs. He rubs circles on the back of your hand. “Yeah. That’s why I didn’t answer you before. Just in case. But I guess—well, yeah.”

You don’t like the cloud that settles on his face. Whatever he thinks, none of this is his fault. Time to change the subject.

“How’d you find us?” you ask quietly.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Bucky says, “but I _am_ a professional.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, and your chest warms.

“You didn’t even notice the assassin aiming at you when we met,” you tease. “If you’re a professional, I guess these loons were too.”

Bucky’s look softens. He cups your cheek with his hand, a welcome warmth against your still-cold face. “They were,” he says. “But you helped us find them. My girl’s a clever one.”

“Don’t get carried away.” You sniff, tears pricking at your eyes. “Gemma saved the day.”

“Well,” Bucky says, smiling, “she’s been a hero as long as I’ve known her.”

You sink into his offered arms and giggle. When they’d met, Gemma had been dressed as Captain America. Now, you can see the real Captain America’s hand on her hair, his face awash with relief. Gemma _had_ saved the day. She saved herself, saved her family, manipulated the bad guys…

Even if it _was_ by getting you kidnapped so Bucky would find you faster. Was that it? Maybe.

“Well,” you say, “I always said she was special.”

Bucky’s chest rumbles with his quiet laugh. “She takes after you.”

There’s a lull in the conversation outside. Matt squeezes Gemma tighter and angles away from the rest. The detectives look cross; Steve crosses his arms and shoots a worried look Bucky’s way.

Bucky makes a little angry noise in his throat, and you pull back to look at him.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

He sighs, shakes his head. “They’re asking why you all got taken.”

“Isn’t it enough that we _were?_ ” you mutter with a frown.

Telling the police about Gemma isn’t an option. Even if they did believe you, it would only put Gemma at more risk. The more people know, the less safe she’ll be. Bucky, Steve—that’s one thing. They’re professional secret-keepers. You don’t know the people surrounding your family. The police and EMTs are strangers. They could be dirty themselves.

You peer up at Bucky. His lips are pressed tight together, the color drained away. You worm a hand free of the blanket and slide it into Bucky’s. He and Steve are the only ones who knew about Gemma, and this had happened on their watch, so to speak. You can see the guilt in his eyes.

Enough of that.

“Did you tell them we were dating?” you ask.

Bucky starts. “No.”

“Well then.” You drag him along towards everyone else, chin set. The police turn towards you and Bucky with raised eyebrows that go higher when they see your clasped hands. “I’m Bucky’s girlfriend,” you announce. “They must have taken us to get at him.”

Matt’s pinches expression lightens.

“Hm.” The lead detective rubs her chin. “I’m certainly looking forward to hearing from the perpetrators. But we have to wait to get _their_ statements until after they’ve been patched up.” She tilts her head sardonically at Bucky and Steve, who are standing side-by-side.

Steve’s brows draw low. He draws himself up, suddenly every inch the captain. “We need a moment with the family,” he says. “Excuse us.” He ushers you, Bucky, and your family out of earshot, then puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder. Gemma clings to your leg, and you pick her up at once. She buries her face in your shoulder. You press your cheek against her hair.

Steve’s narrow face is dead serious as he looks between Matt and Sarah. “You may not know this, but the people who took you were part of a former HYDRA unit that tried to assassinate Bucky a year and a half ago.”

Matt and Sarah’s eyes widen.

“The woman was the one who shot me,” you throw in.

Steve’s eyes bug open. He turns to Bucky, who nods.

“Damn,” Steve mutters. “Well, that… confirms things.” He turns back to Matt and Sarah. “The point is, these people are serious. We haven’t told anyone about Gemma, but the FBI, if not SHIELD, is going to get in on this case just because of what they did that Halloween. And I can’t promise that your daughter’s abilities won’t come out.”

Sarah sags against Matt. “So they weren’t crazy,” she murmurs. “Gemma really does have… powers? I can’t—” She breaks off, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Please tell me this is crazy.”

“It’s crazy, but it’s real,” Steve says. He glances over his shoulder at the huddle of police. “There are people I trust at SHIELD, people who can provide you with a level of protection that should keep things like this from ever happening again. And it should mean that she doesn’t get dragged into something bigger either.”

“But she’s just a kid!” Sarah snaps. She takes Gemma from your arms and squeezes her tight. Gemma wriggles in protest. “Who would drag her into things?”

Steve pinches his nose. “Both SHIELD and HYDRA have a history of using gifted children for their own ends. But the people I know would never let that happen.”

“That’s the opposite of comforting,” Matt snaps. “I’m not going to put my safety in the hands of—”

“Our daughter isn’t—”

“Look,” Bucky interrupts, just loud enough to silence the Matt and Sarah. “It’s either Steve’s friends, who _respect_ what he stands for and will work _with_ you, or you get tossed to the wolves. Sure, maybe some of the other people are fine. But Steve’s people _will_ protect you. You have a best option, and this is it.”

Matt and Sarah just glare at him. You rub your throbbing temple.

“Matt, there’s no going back,” you say wearily. “You ignored me last Halloween, and I don’t blame you. It sounds crazy. It _is_ crazy,” you add, with a nod to Sarah. “But look where we are now.” You gesture at the bleak landscape around you, the blasted-open warehouse. “We are way out of our depth. But Steve isn’t. Let him help you.”

“Let _us_ help you,” Bucky amends.

Matt’s shoulders slump. He turns and whispers to Sarah. Steve and Bucky look away, though you’re sure _they_ can hear. After a minute, Sarah and Matt turn back to Steve.

“Alright,” Matt says. He wraps an arm around Sarah, who’s holding Gemma, and nods. “Captain, you’re on.”

 

* * *

 

The hospital upstate holds you and your family overnight for observation, giving the police ample time to collect your statements. One of them returns to your hotel room and brings you your things. Steve summons one of his ‘trusted associates’ from SHIELD to stand guard.

You hang back with Bucky as Steve introduces the agent to Matt and Sarah.

“That guy’s a weirdo, but he’s good,” Bucky comments.

You snort. “Well, they can handle weirdos.”

“They handle me,” Bucky says.

“Funny,” you tease, “I was about to say the same.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “Guess we belong together.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple. “Us weirdos should stick together.”

You hook your arm around his waist.

_Yes please._

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, the FBI _and_ SHIELD are on the case within thirty-six hours. By then, you and your family are back in the city, far from Canisteo and dilapidated warehouses. Well, to be fair, there are dilapidated warehouses in New York City, but they’re _city_ warehouses.

Alright, so maybe you’re a city snob.

Steve had arranged for a crew to help clean up Matt and Sarah’s place. By the time you all arrive there, it looks more sparkling than ever. Bucky heads to the kitchen to get some food together. Everyone else settles in the living room, but you trail after Bucky.

Between the police, the hospital staff, your family, Steve, and all the trauma, you haven’t had a chance to really talk to Bucky alone. He’d barely left your side since first cutting you free, but there’d been no chance of an open conversation about _feelings_ with your older brother feet away. But now, maybe you can ask if he’s heard his voicemail.

When you spot him peering into the pantry, your heart drops. How can he be so nonchalant if he’s heard what you said?

He must not have.

Bucky turns and smiles at you as you linger in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says. He holds up a long box of pasta. “How does lasagna sound?”

“Fine,” you say, “although it does take a while.” You brush past him to rummage in the fridge, trying to control your breathing. “There’s some cheese. Can you grab some crackers?” You get a platter and slice some cheese. Bucky’s slow in getting the crackers, and you glance over at him.

He’s frowning at you, cracker box in hand.

“What?” you ask, a little shorter than you intended.

“What’s eating you, darlin’?” He sets the box down and comes closer. “Are you still—”

“That’s not it,” you blurt. You step back and twist your hands together. “Have, um, have you listened to your voicemail?”

Bucky blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it. Then he pulls out his phone, jumps up to sit on the counter, and taps a few times on his phone. When he puts the phone to his ear, you can hear your muffled voice right away. Bucky stares ahead, but he reaches his left hand out to you after the first voicemail ends. You inch forward to take his hand.

God, how many voicemails did you leave?

Answer: too damn many.

Finally, the last message starts. Half of you wants to turn away, to hide—how is he going to react? Is he going to make a face, make fun?—but you can’t tear your eyes away. Bucky’s face is still, emotionless.

“Hi Bucky, it’s me. It’s, uh, around one pm. I know you’re busy, but I w-wanted—" A pause. "Sorry. I wanted to tell you I love you. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but no matter what happens, I love you. So damn much, Bucky. Please be safe. No matter what happens to me, please take care of yourself. Bye.”

_Click._

You can’t see Bucky; your eyes are blurred with tears. Bucky tugs you between his legs and wipes your tears away with his right hand, the soft one.

“When did you figure that out?” he asks gently.

“O-oh.” You give a shuddering laugh in an attempt to mask your building terror. “Right then. One pm in Canisteo.”

“Well god bless one pm in Canisteo,” he says fervently. His eyes bore into yours as he takes your face in his hands. “Don’t you know I love you like a wild man?”

A weight leaves off you so quickly it’s like flying. Your smile is wide and bright. “You’re behaving awfully well for a wild man.”

His blue eyes flash, but you continue before he can cut in.

“I suppose a tame wild man is better than nothing.” You slide your hands up his thighs with a smirk and bite your lip. “I think I’ll keep him.”

Bucky laughs. He hops down from the counter and spins you in his arms, your feet dangling and your arms tight around his neck. When he stops spinning, he curls a hand around your neck and presses his scorching lips to yours. He’s gentle at first, but then he tilts his head to deepen the kiss with a growl in the back of his throat. Warmth blooms in your chest, spreading fast as Bucky works his magic. You tangle your hands in his hair, heart full fit to bursting.

_Yes,_ you think dizzily. _I’ll keep him._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well thanks for coming on this wild ride!!! I had a ton of fun and I hope you did too :3

It’s Valentine’s Day.

A year ago today, you were overworked, lonely, and bitter. You’d spent the day working furiously, the evening with ice cream in front of the tv. You’d been too busy kicking yourself in the foot about not asking Bucky out after he’d bought you that cookie to enjoy the sappy movie you watched.

You can’t help but grin at the memory as you check yourself out in the mirror. If only you’d known what was to come. Would you have believed it?

Maybe, maybe not. Even if you had, you never could have anticipated how happy you are now. Sure, there have been bumps along the way. Bumps, scrapes, near-death experiences…

All worth it.

You grab your dress off the bed and wiggle into it—thank god for side zippers—and skip off to finish getting ready.

The knock at the door comes just as you’re putting on the finishing touches.

“You have a key, Bucky, just come in!” you call, grinning.

The door opens and shuts.

“Where’re you hidin’?”

“Coming!”

You throw open the bathroom door, but the smile on your face dies when you see Bucky. Your heart pounds; your mouth goes dry.

God, has there ever been a more perfect man?

Bucky’s got on the softest looking cream-colored turtleneck under his navy suit. Everything is fitted to perfection. He looks taller and fitter than ever. His hair is soft and tucked behind his ears; he’s trimmed his beard to just the length you like best. Outside of bed, he’s never looked better.

You finally meet his eyes—and oh, how beautifully blue they are tonight—prepared to apologize for staring, but he’s still staring at you, his lips parted as his eyes rove up and down your body. You bite your lip, suddenly self-conscious. _You_ like your new dress, but will he?

Bucky takes a step towards you, then stops. He shakes his head, eyes wide in wonder.

“You’re _perfect,_ ” he breathes. “Where did you even come from?”

You can’t help but giggle as you close the distance between you and twine your arms around his neck. “It’s a mystery. As far as _we’re_ concerned, I just appeared out of nowhere to bowl you over.”

Bucky laughs loud and bright. There are those crinkles on his nose, the lovely lines around his eyes. You smooth a finger across them, unable to look away. He slides an arm around your waist and pulls you even closer, finally lowering his lips to yours. You hum happily into the kiss, your hands in his hair and your heart aglow.

A familiar ringtone from your bedroom grabs your unwilling attention. You pull back a few inches with a grimace.

“It’s Matt,” you tell Bucky. “Should I just ignore it?”

He snorts. “Uh, yes. He should be out with Sarah, not bothering you.”

“They’re waiting for the weekend. Babysitters charge a premium on holidays, you know.”

“I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.” Bucky nuzzles behind your ear. “So when are we heading out?”

“As soon as you manage to get your hands off me, I can put on my coat.”

Bucky chuckles low and delicious. The sound goes straight through you.

“Darlin’, never gonna happen.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Bucky’s threat, you do make it in time for your dinner reservation. Bucky scoots his chair next to yours. All through dinner, his right hand is on you. If he’s not holding your hand, he’s stroking your back or squeezing your thigh.

When the waiter brings out dessert, a lava cake that oozes the second you poke it with your fork, Bucky’s hand inches higher on your thigh. Heat licks at your cheeks, your chest, lower…

“Aren’t you going to save that for later?” you murmur.

Bucky’s low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. “You say that like it’s a one-time deal.”

“Maybe it is.” You take a slow bite of the lava cake, never dropping Bucky’s gaze. Then you dip your finger in the ganache and suck your finger clean. Bucky swallows, his eyes on your mouth.

“You—”

Your phone rings again, cutting Bucky short. It’s Matt, again. This is what, the fifth time he’s called tonight?

“It must be an emergency,” you say apologetically, taking Bucky’s hand and holding it safely on the table as you answer. “Hey Matt, what’s the matter?”

“It’s Gemma,” Matt says. He sounds exhausted, but not worried.

Your head falls back. Typical—Gemma has a thing for holidays. “What does she want this time?”

“Just for you two to stop by before you go back to your place. I assume you’re with Bucky—tell him hi.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I can swing that. See you later, Matt.”

You hang up and glance over at Bucky. He’s mid-chew, with chocolate smeared on his plump lower lip and even a spot on his nose.

God, you love this man.

“We’re gonna stop by Matt’s on the way home,” you tell him.

“Blech. Fine,” he grumbles.

You smile and kiss the chocolate off of his nose. “I won’t let Gemma keep us long.”

“Good,” Bucky says. He curls his hand around your leg again, his fingers pressing just enough to make you weak. His eyes are large and dark and everything you’ve ever wanted. “Because I’m dying to take you home.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Gemma opens the door, you bend to hug her. “What’s up, Gem?”

“I have something for Bucky,” she says. She tugs him upstairs, leaving you standing in the living room with Matt, baffled.

“What’s going on?” you ask him.

“You know Gemma,” Matt says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s got some scheme that will inevitably turn out well, but in the meantime we live in suspense.”

That’s Gemma alright.

Bucky’s only gone for two minutes, but the idle chat you make with your brother is hardly distracting enough. During the car ride over, Bucky’s wandering hand had been bolder than in the restaurant. He only relented when you brought up Gemma.

But Bucky comes down soon enough. His expression is a mixture of delight and astonishment. You tilt your head in inquiry, but his answering grin is enigmatic.

He grabs your hand and drags you out the door, leaving you barely enough time to say goodbye.

The short ride back to your place is tame in comparison with before. All Bucky does is hold your hand, and sometimes press a kiss to the back of it. Even the climb up the stairs is strangely sedate.

What on earth did Gemma give him? When Bucky’s got his mind on _taking you home_ , so to speak, he never goes back to gentle affection like this until he’s had his way with you. Two minutes apart shouldn’t have made such a different, and yet—

“Bucky, what did she give you?” you blurt.

“Patience is a virtue,” Bucky says. His eyes twinkle at you as he unlocks your apartment door. “After you.”

You head inside, unwinding your scarf with a queasy stomach. Did she give him something bad? Gemma wouldn’t do something that would hurt you, would she?

You don’t like the answer to that question. Sure, you had Bucky, but you’d also gotten shot. Was there some cosmic balance that needed restoring?

The door shuts. You peel off your gloves, then your coat. Your hands tremble.

Bucky takes over pulling at your coat. He’s shed his coat and suit jacket, leaving him in just that soft turtleneck and the fitted pants. He tosses your coat with his on the couch and pulls you into his arms, swaying to some imaginary tune. If you focused, you could hear it, but right now all that you can think of is the awful certainty of all of this perfection coming to an end.

You shiver. Bucky tightens his arms around you.

“Do you want to know what she gave me?” he asks. “I was gonna save it, but…”

“I don’t much like waiting,” you mumble into his shoulder. “If I don’t know, I’ll just worry about it.”

“Well, it’s not exactly the sort of thing that eliminates worries.”

You frown. “Huh?”

Bucky chuckles. He lets go of you, his hands lingering on your waist for the briefest moment, and rifles through his suit jacket.

“Gemma got me a stop-gap,” he says, still rummaging. “I was gonna get something serious, but I hope this will do for now.”

You don’t know what to think until Bucky comes back in front of you and drops on one knee.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. You clap a hand over your mouth; the other grabs onto Bucky’s shoulder. Your knees are this close to buckling. “Bucky—”

“This isn’t the time or the place or the ring I was planning on,” Bucky interrupts, eyes gleaming, “but the seer has spoken.” He opens the black box in his hands. Inside is—

A diamond ring pop?!

You burst into tears and laughter all at once. You fall to your knees, knocking the box out of his hands, and bury your face in his neck and your hands in his hair. He slowly wraps his arms around you.

“I was planning on actually talking to you about it,” he murmurs once you’ve quieted. “You know, like an adult. And then I was gonna take you to that park upstate, when it was warmer, you know, and maybe have a picnic—”

“You can still do all that,” you assure him, pulling back. Are your eyes as bright as his? You’re not crying, but there are tears clinging to your eyelashes, same as his.

“And I was gonna see if any of my relatives have a spare diamond ring,” Bucky finishes mournfully. He scoops the ring pop—thankfully still wrapped—off the floor. “We might be stuck with this thing, though. Think you can handle it?”

You take the ring pop, tear open the packaging, and give it a good solid lick. Then you stick it on your finger. “It’s a sweet gesture, Bucky.” He snorts; you cradle his face in your hands, smiling so hard it hurts. “I think I can manage.”

“Good,” he says. “But I’m gonna suggest you take it off.”

“Huh? Why?”

Bucky’s eyes go dark faster than you can fathom. His voice goes low, and his hands slide up your legs in the best way. “Because I don’t know if that thing will survive what I’ve been dying to do to you all night.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly breathless. “Okay.”

You wiggle the plastic band off your finger and set it on the coffee table in its wrapper; it makes a little click against the wooden tabletop. Bucky lifts you effortlessly and carries you into the bedroom, kissing you all the way.

The ring can wait. Right now, you’re busy.

“My man,” you murmur as he lays you down. He brushes a gentle hand across your face. The tenderness in his dark eyes is enough to make you fall in love all over again.

“My girl.”


End file.
